


Demon Child

by Officer_Jennie



Series: Tobirama in Mythology [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I have other stories I should be working on, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Tobirama doesn't die in this one, Warring States Period (Naruto), Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Officer_Jennie/pseuds/Officer_Jennie
Summary: (Update Schedule: On hiatus)Abandoned as a child and left to starve in the streets, Tobirama hadn't expected to live long. But he stubbornly clung to life anyway, and a passing shinobi collected him and named him his ward - and he became an honorary member of the Senju family.Or: How Tobirama wound up with a family, and found his place in the human world.OR: I'm terrible at summaries, and have no idea what I'm doing with my life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn't start off happy. The main character is Tobirama, but it's told through other people's perspective of him, not his own perspective. Also, he doesn't die in this story. I promised myself that I wouldn't be killing him again anytime soon - my heart couldn't take it.
> 
> Not sure exactly how long this will be, but it won't be that long.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama's mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these chapters are going to be short, just one scene each - though some will be longer than others. On the bright side, it means they'll come out faster :)

She couldn't count the scars. Teeth marks on her breasts, areola bitten to tough scar tissue, discolored and blotchy from the bloody mess he'd left it while breastfeeding. Long, thin marks down and across her arms, clawed into her from his fits and tantrums. One wrist had never healed quite right, twinging in pain even now, near a year after he'd grabbed her, flailing in his sleep and snapping the bone.

She had tried to love him, it, her child. Tried to soothe his hair as he slept, whimpering from the nightmares. To hold his hand, grimacing from the painful grip on her fingers. Avoided looking at those eyes, crimson and far too sharp for his age, to look past the red marks on his cheeks and chin. Went as far as to dye his hair, to make him look more natural, normal -  _anything_ to distract from what she knew he was.

But, she couldn't. Couldn't ignore the pain he caused her, even if he cried and patted the bruises each time. Couldn't hide from those  _eyes_ , eyes that always found her, that were a perfect match to  _his_ , the creature that had seeded her. Couldn't go on like this, crying herself to sleep every night, holding up in her room with the door locked shut, living in constant fear of that  _thing_ she had birthed, that slept in her house, toddled around under her roof, always watching her with those  _hideous eyes_.

Hated it, with all that she was. So, she got rid of it. Sold the small house and hitched a ride out of town without a word to anyone, watching the only home she'd ever known disappear from the back of the hay cart she was perched on.

She should have killed it. It would have been kinder that way, far faster than the starvation awaiting in on the streets. She'd meant to the night before. Had clutched her pillow tight to her chest as she'd watched its own rise and fall, breaths deep and slow as it slept, white hair obscuring its face.

It had been her child, once. Her boy. So small and fragile as a newborn. It had still had those red eyes, the red marks cutting across its chubby cheeks. Had the white hair and skin, still a ghost of a boy; had barely looked alive against her own tan skin. Most of all, it had been  _hers_ , her little boy, cooing and burbling against her chest, falling asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.

She had loved him once, had treasured him dearly, and couldn't do it. Had let the pillow slip through her fingers to the floor, leaving him to sleep, safe and warm for the last night he'd ever have a family or home.

A small part of her hated herself, the last bit left that called him hers. But the rest feared what he would become, what she knew it would grow up to be. She couldn't be a part of that. Wouldn't raise a monster, or set such a vile thing free unto the world.

When she was dropped off at the next town, she waited by the road, flagging the first cart she saw down. She was determined to get as far away as possible, to never be found. She wanted to forget the last five years, to forget it had ever been born. The scars she bore would never allow her to forget, but she could hope at least. Hope was all she had left now, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions/comments are both welcomed and appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taku, the baker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Or, if there's no holiday happening where you live, happy random Thursday! :)

It was a scrawny thing, bone white with its ragged clothes hanging loose, bare feet leaving dirty footprints wherever it went. It liked to haunt the alleyways and raid the trashcans for crumbs and cloth. She saw it make off with boxes when it could, building up the nasty hovel it had out behind the storehouse, right next door to Jun’s ramen shop.

Jun hired a new server one spring, a wisp of a girl with far too much air about her, head stuck in the sky and a glazed look about her as she went about her work. Taku knew the foolish girl would get into trouble, saw it the moment she laid her one good eye on her across the counter, humming a nonsensical tune as she peered into the display of pastries.

The first time she saw it, creeping along the streets alone, slinking back to its fort with a stained and muddy sheet, the girl had near thrown herself at Taku, falling into the woman’s arms and sobbing. Taku had clicked her tongue, warning her to ignore it, to stay as far away from that creature as she could. Sent the girl off home with a sharp look and a prayer to the gods that she wouldn’t cause the whole town problems with her ill-founded pity for the red-eyed ghost.

But of course, she didn’t listen. She had started to feed it, Jun said as he picked out a loaf for the weekend. Left it warm food and clothes, even shoes. Once fall rolled around, the girl could be found knitting on every break, hair slipping out of her bun and the warmest smile on her face, wooden needles clinking together as she worked the wool yarn back into itself.

She’d lost a child, she admitted when Taku asked, recounting the stitches with her brows knitted together. Lost it to the chill, not three months after the babe had been born. She spotted the girl trying to talk to it the next day, the thing staring wide up at her, clutching the thick blanket in its filthy hands, staining the dark wool on contact.

That fall, its curse fell upon her. She caught a cough one evening, pulling her shawl close around her shoulders as she patted its head fondly, skipping her shift to sleep off the sudden cold.

The priest said it was the fever that did her in, taking her in the night without warning. He burned her that day, Jun adding the sheets and all her clothes to the pile, hoping to burn the illness with her.

Jun started to lock his trash up tight after that, the whole of the town following suit, trying their best to starve it out. The priest suggested they throw salt whenever it came near, and they started to mutter prayers as well, signing to ward against the evil it brought with it everywhere. Taku shooed it away from her shop when it came near, even when it brought the spare coins it collected off the streets, and convinced one of the local boys to tear out the soggy cardboard it slept in. But the parasite clung on anyway, building back its collection of rotten boxes and rags. It was a nasty boil on their town, one that refused to be lanced.

Until, at last, three long years after Taku first spotted it lurking in the streets, it disappeared. She swore excited that it was gone for good, telling everyone that would listen that it was dead. She slept peacefully for the first time in since that thing had appeared, glad to be rid of the ghost that had haunted her town for far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Jun (準) - Conform  
> Taku (諑) - Slander
> 
> Next chapter, we'll start seeing characters we actually know. Woo!
> 
> Questions/comments are both welcomed and greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senju Butsuma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't always going to be updated daily. I just got really excited about this chapter.

The winter had been kind to no one. Butsuma wrapped his cloak tighter against the wind, pausing on a branch as he did so. It was ill-advised for most to travel in such weather, the snow piling up past their shins on the forest floor; his company was perhaps more prepared than average, able to leap through the trees, but even shinobi would rather be gathered around a fire.

His clan might be better off than most, but even they couldn’t go a whole season without work. Food was expensive enough on its own. Beyond that, his sons were growing fast. They needed new gloves and boots, lest he wished their toes to break off from the cold. He readjusted his weight on the branch, leaping off after motioning his men forward; he’d learned in his youth some luxuries were more necessary than others, and felt the phantom digits twitching in his boots as he thought of that hard-learned lesson.

At the edge of the forest, Butsuma took a sharp left, dropping to the road to continue on foot. He wouldn’t normally detour so close to Senju land, only a few days run to the crackling fire he knew his wife would have going in the main house. But his men had been running for near a week straight, only camping in the occasional cave they ran across for a few hours at a time.

Not to mention Masuyo’s limp was getting worse by the hour. She tried to play it off as a minor injury, despite how heavily she was favoring her other leg. A full night’s rest would do them all good anyway, and the ryo it would cost would be outweighed by the danger of continuing on as they were.

As they got closer to the town, he motioned for his team to cover their clan symbols, maneuvering his cloak to fully hide the tantō strapped at his side. They might be in neutral territory, but there was no reason to advertise either status. He was grateful that he hadn’t worn his full armor for the mission, at least. There would have been little he could have done to hide that bulk.

His team was sent straight to the inn at the far side of town, himself headed towards the ramen shop hidden away near a towering building he knew not the purpose for. The inn did have stew and sake prepared for those staying the night, but he’d stayed here before with his clansmen - and none of them had enjoyed being violently ill so far away from home. He shuddered at the thought, and had no intention of repeated that particular experience anytime soon. The local ramen joint was decent enough anyway, and the broth would be both warm and easy on their mostly empty stomachs.

After waiting for his order, and being forced to make stilted small talk with the gabby man making his noodles, he started off towards the inn, looking forward to stripping out of his wet clothes for the night. He noticed the baker was still open, the plump woman who ran the shop shooing a frail looking child away from her storefront, making a hand sign he recognized as a local superstition before hobbling back inside. It probably wasn’t necessary, but some rolls for the road would be levels better than their usual ration bars, and would keeps spirits up in the last leg of their journey.

The baker was throwing salt towards the doorway as he walked in. She muttered a low apology as some hit him, which he waved off immediately, quickly asking for a dozen rolls before she could force him into more small talk and reached for his coins as she pulled them out.

The pouch was gone, no longer hanging from his waist. He patted around his side; he’d just had it in the ramen shop, and was sure he would have felt it slip off or hit the ground if it had.

“D’ja lose somethin?” He gave a curt nod, frowning deeply as he checked the bag of takeout as well. She studied him for a moment with her one good eye, the other clouded over with an untreated cataract, before clicking her tongue. “You a Senju, yeah?”

He was much more reluctant to say yes to that, but he found himself nodding awkwardly anyway, thrown off by the situation. To his surprise, she plopped something down on the glass display - a leather pouch, complete with the Senju clan symbol embroidered on both sides. She gestured towards the doorway with a dramatic sweep of her arm, her one brown eye set hard, nose wrinkling with distaste. “Started thieving, it has. Nasty thing.”

None of his coins were missing, at least. He gruffed out a quick thanks as he paid for his purchase, leaving an extra coin behind as well before starting towards the door. But he found himself pausing, one hand on the door handle as he frowned thoughtfully down at the leather pouch in the other. It had been stolen from literally under his nose, sometime between making his ramen order and arriving at the bakery - he couldn’t remember a single soul approaching him though, nor could he remember any sound that would have alerted him either. He was a skilled shinobi, far behind competent enough to notice someone crunching through the snow near him; how he he not felt something, seen something, anything?

He turned back to the baker, holding up the pouch. “Who did you get this from?” She shook her head, disgust curling a sneer at her lips as she wiped at the grime on her counter.

“The akki. Lives in the alley, it does.” She gave a pointed look at his side, where the handle of his tantō was just visible. He pulled his cloak back to hide it once more as she continued. “Would do us a favor to be rid of it, it would.”

It was dark outside, the street barely visible out the window next to the door. He pulled the short curtain back, glancing around what he could see of the town. “Which alley?” She directed him with a pleased air about her, slipping a few extra rolls in his bag for the trouble. He caught the ward sign she made as he left, the wind stinging his face as he shut the door behind him.

His curiosity was certainly piqued. He dropped the food off first, ignoring Masuyo’s questioning look in favor of setting his dinner off to the side, slipping right back out of the room just as his three companions started getting rowdy. His tantō was still strapped securely at his side, boots crunching beneath him in the dirty snow. It was still falling, big flakes fluttering slow in his path, the majority of the storm having mostly passed them.

The alleyway was narrow and cluttered, and he picked his way through it quietly. Instinct and experience told him to head for the largest mass of soggy cardboard, noting it was the only one clear of snow - to keep it from caving in from the weight, no doubt, though the material was already worn and close to dissolving.

When he squatted low to peek through the wet flaps, a door of sorts he supposed, all he found was a small lump of a being, huddled up and twitching in its sleep.

He hadn’t expected a child. Wasn’t sure what he had expected, if he was honest with himself. Hadn’t exactly come out with plans to kill whoever stole from him, despite the baker’s not so subtle hints for him to do so. Perhaps teach them a lesson, prove a point and whatnot about not taking what was his. But a child?

He pushed the make-shift door to the side, watching the small thing shiver in its sleep, eyes shut too tight to be peaceful. The thread-bare sheet it used in place of a blanket was foul, its hair unkempt and matted down with mud, pale cheeks smudge with dirt and its nose bright pink from the cold. Too many bones were visible, jutting against its white skin, for it to not be starving.

His boots made the slightest of sounds on the snow as he shifted his weight, and the child’s eyes shot open, widening with fear as he turned to stare up at his intruder.

The child had not been treated kindly. That much was more than clear in the way it scurried back, bruises visible on its forearms as it pushed back in the corner of its hovel, black and purple all over its bare legs as it tucked them up close. The pitiful thing was barefoot and dressed in filthy rags, right in the middle of the harsh winter - though he was relieved to note it wasn’t yet missing any fingers or toes.

Butsuma kept eye contact with the child the baker had called an akki, moving slow as to not startle it, letting his money pouch sit in his outstretched hand between them. If the sheepish shrinking was anything to go by, it was at least guilty about stealing from him.

“How’d you get this from me, boy?” He assumed it was a boy. But why such a small child of any sex would be out in the cold was beyond him. He had to be younger than ten by a few years; old enough to fight in the shinobi world, perhaps, but this child was no warrior. And civilians usually coddled their children long into their teen years; yet, here this one was, freezing and starving right outside the warmth of a ramen shop.

He blinked, and his hand was empty. He hadn’t heard the boy move at all, hadn’t seen him snatch the pouch away for the second time. This time, the boy didn’t run off with his catch. Only held the pouch back out, red eyes focused down on his toes, scrunching them up away from the snow trying to creep its way into his shelter. Butsuma accepted the pouch back, taking one last minute to study the boy before pushing himself back to his feet, heading back to the dinner waiting for him at the inn.

The boy seemed just as shocked when he dropped by the second time, but was distracted easily by the food thrusted his way. The noodles were only lukewarm by now, something hardly noticed as they were inhaled; he struggled with the chopsticks but managed well enough, stuffing two rolls down as well when they were offered.

That was meant to be the end of his goodwill. Butsuma went back to sleep off the rough week behind him, used to the churning of an empty stomach and not allowing it to bother him. But he noticed a clothing shop just at the edge of town, and knew he couldn’t walk passed it. His men were sent ahead towards the compound; he made sure they were well away before entering the shop, picking out a thick enough coat and the only pair of small shoes they had.

As he tossed the sandals down, watching the boy struggle with the straps, his fingers stiff from the cold, Butsuma couldn’t help but wonder. The boy was fast, and damn near silent as he moved. There was a swell of chakra in him as well, shinobi blood in his veins no doubt. He might not be a warrior yet, but he could certainly be nurtured into one under the right circumstances.

Besides, his wife would hardly mind another little one running around. The boy could pass as one of her own; he had the right hair and complexion, though there was little chance he was actually a Hatake. That clan was fiercely loyal to their own, and would sooner die violently than abandon one of their pups.

It was with those thoughts that he collected the child, doing his best to shield him from the worst of the wind as they made their way out of town. The boy was reluctant to follow, distrust evident in his posture and movements, but stumbled along next to him anyway. The fact that he trusted his chances with a stranger over staying in that town spoke volumes of the people who lived there.

The baker would be happy for her akki to be gone, at least. The thought brought a wry smile to Butsuma’s face as he covered the sleeping boy with his cloak, stoking the fire to keep the winter at bay. By the next evening, the boy would be his ward, an honorary member of the Senju head’s family, and wouldn’t have to worry about the superstitions of small town folk again. He listened to the crackling of the fire, the woods around them quiet and peaceful, telling himself he was doing this for the betterment of his clan and not because the thought of leaving him behind, to starve alone, was enough to tighten his chest and wet his eyes.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, knowing it was a lie. At least his clan would be easier to fool than himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Masuyo (益世) - Benefit the world/society
> 
> Terminology:  
> Akki (悪鬼) - Evil spirit; demon  
> Tantō (短刀) - A short sword, traditionally used by the samurai during feudal Japan.
> 
> I know Butsuma's canonically a shithead (even though he DID love his children), but Tobirama deserves a good family.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senju Hashirama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter would _not_ work with me. Also, my cats keep stealing my chair. The fucking assholes.

Hashirama couldn’t sleep. His yukata was all stiff and itchy, and his pillow had a wonky lump right where his head went. He moved and fluffed it about, but the hard lump was still there when he dropped his head back down. And there was light shinning right in his face. He scooted down and tried using his arm instead, throwing the blankets over his face to block out the starlight.

The blankets smelled weird, like dust and old clothes. The oshiire made everything smell funny. He rolled over with a groan, pulling his pillow under the covers to bury his face back into it. Which was now cold. He pushed the pillow away again, frowning down at the white sheets that covered his futon.

Mom wasn’t home. He could never sleep when she wasn't here. Maybe Yoai wouldn’t mind if he slept with her? Father said he was too old for that now, but she didn't seem to mind.

Hashirama chewed on his lip, wincing when he pulled some skin off. Kawarama was sleeping with Yoai tonight. His littlest brother woke up so easily, and hadn’t slept much lately. Yoai said Kawa’s fever had broken at least.

Maybe he could read? The candles should be enough to see by, and the books Satoshi-sensei sent home with him always put him to sleep. He braved the cold and peeked over at his desk, pausing at the sound of low voices drifting down the hallway.

Someone was moving around the living room. It couldn’t be Mom back yet; she had left only a few hours ago, and said she’d be gone for a week. Whoever it was, they had a deep voice - Hashirama threw the covers off, sitting up and straining his ears to listen. It must be Father, back from his own mission. He should have been back two days ago. His team hadn’t known why he didn’t come back with them. It always scared him when his parents weren’t back on time. They were both really strong, but he couldn’t help it. Father said he worried too much.

If he got up now, he’d be scolded. He pouted, wriggling around on the futon to cover his legs back up. Even if he’d missed Father, he wouldn’t be happy he was up so late. Father wasn’t very lenient about bedtimes. Well, about anything, really.

But who was he talking to? Was Yoai up? Or did Mom come back super early?

His curiosity got the better of him. The tatami in his room got cold in the winter, but it had nothing on the icy wood flooring in the hallway. He padded towards the living room as quietly as he could, though he wished he had thought to slip on some socks or slippers before sneaking about.

“Hashirama.” He froze right outside the doorway, caught before he could peek around the corner. And he had been quiet this time, too! He wilted as he stepped into the room, fiddling with the ends of his long sleeves. With any luck, he wouldn’t be in too much trouble. Maybe Father had just missed him and wanted to talk?

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Of course he wasn’t that lucky. He peeked up at his father, who was frowning - like usual. At least it looked like his ‘I expect an answer’ frown and not his ‘I’m angry and/or disappointed in you’ frown. There was that, at least. “Where’s your mother?”

“Kaa-san had to leave…” Hadn’t Father been speaking to someone? He looked around the room, but he couldn’t see anyone else with them. “I thought you were talking to someone.”

His father grunted, nodding his head towards an odd shaped lump of coats next to the kotatsu. The lump shifted a bit, and Hashirama blinked as a pale face with bright eyes peered out at him.

“Oh, hello!” Hashirama waved cheerily at the other boy, instantly moving over to his side. It was surprising to see someone here, especially so late. And someone around his age too! They never had anyone over his age - besides Touka, but he didn’t count her. She liked to throw mud and cackle at him when he tripped over things. Which he did a lot. “What’s your name? Mine’s Hashirama.”

His new friend must have been really cold, because he pulled one of his coats closer and hid in it. Now that Hashirama could see it better, it looked like his father’s travel cloak. He leaned over to see his friend’s face again, beaming down at him as he tucked himself further into the coat pile.

“Mom called me Shiroma.” The name was a bit odd, but Hashirama didn’t tell him that. It’s not like chose it himself anyway. He was just happy to know his name.

“You’ll be getting a new one.” His father walked over, taking both his cloak and the boy’s heavy coat and tossing them over a chair. Father didn’t look too happy about his name. But, to be fair, he never looked happy about anything. He wished he would smile more.

“Hashirama, take him to go bathe.”

“Okay!” He grabbed his friend’s hand and drug them down the hall, being extra quiet as they toed passed Yoai’s room. The wet-room was at the end of the hall, right next door to his father’s study. It was still a bit humid from when Hashirama and Itama had bathed before bed, but Father didn’t have to know that. One more bath wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“You go ahead, I’ll get the bath ready.” With a wave towards the soaps, he started filling the tub with hot water, humming the lullaby Yoai always sang to them. No one wanted to be boiled alive their first night somewhere, even if it was freezing outside, so he made sure not to let it get too hot. When he finished, he glanced over his shoulder, finding that his friend hadn’t moved even an inch. He was just standing in front of the door, awkwardly shifting his weight and frowning at the soaps. Hashirama thought he looked adorable and bite his tongue not to giggle at him. Or laugh. Touka said boys don't giggle, though he wasn't sure she was right about that.

“Do you usually bathe alone? I always bathe with my brothers.” He walked back over to him, leaning forward to catch his gaze. His eyes were red, which was weird. But they looked nice with his…were those tattoos? Scars?

The boy jerked his head to the side, clutching his arms close to his chest. He must not like talking very much, because he always took forever say anything.

“I don’t know how.” Hashirama tilted his head to one side, wrinkling his nose in confusion. After a moment of being stared at blankly, the boy started squirming and his cheeks flushed a very cute shade of pink. “I don’t know how to bathe.”

“Oooh.” How did someone not know how to bathe? Hashirama shook his head, giving his friend a warm smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll help!” He threw off his own clothes and got to work setting everything up while his friend did the same.

It took a few tries to get all the dirt out, but Hashirama had always liked washing people’s hair, even if his friend squirmed more than even Kawa did. There were a few more red tattoos/scars/whatever they were around his body, but the other marks made him not want to ask about them just yet. The purple and black bruises made him feel queasy, and he scrubbed his friend’s back as gently as he could. They didn’t look like training bruises.

The bath fit them both easily. It helped that his friend was so tiny, especially when he pulled his legs up and sat right against the tub. Hashirama really hoped Father would let him stay with them for a while. He might be really quiet, but he didn’t seem to mind when Hashirama started telling him all about his brothers - and the evil menace, Touka. Most people said he talked too much.

His father poked his head in after a while, knocking lightly and placing some clothes on a nearby stool. “It’s time to sleep. He’ll be staying with you tonight.”

They both got out and dried off quickly. Hashirama tried to help dry his friend’s hair, but he didn’t seem to like it very much, ducking away from the towel when he stepped behind him. It reminded him of the cat that used to live near their house, which his mom had called skittish.

When they stepped out into the hallway, his father gave him a pointed look as he headed in to take his own bath. “Straight to sleep, Hashirama.”

He pouted, but nodded anyway. Maybe they’d have time to play in the morning? At least he’d get to sleep with someone tonight. He grabbed his friend’s hand again and led him to their room, snuggling up to him under the covers.

His friend went really stiff when he threw his arm over him, but Hashirama wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was still cold? Just in case, he cuddled him harder, tucking him right under his chin and into his chest. Itama always loved sleeping like this, so he was sure his friend would too.

It took a good hour for the boy to relax, and Hashirama was still fighting back huge yawns after his breathing evened out. He couldn’t wait to introduce his brothers to his newest friend, and the excitement made it really hard to sleep. He snuggling up close and buried his face into the white hair, breathing in the soft smell of rose petals. His mom's shampoo smelled nice, and he soon relaxed completely, drifting off to sleep with a warm smile pressed into the top of his friend's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Senju Yoai (与愛) - "Bestow/provide love/affection."  
> Senju Satoshi (聡) - Wise; quick-witted  
> Shiroma (白魔) - "White demon." Hashirama thought it was spelled with the same kanji from his own name (白間), which would have roughly meant "a bridge between white" (which is why Hashirama thought it sounded so odd). Since the townsfolk had called Tobirama an akki, Butsuma assumed the correct spelling and plans to change his name.
> 
> Terminology:  
> Oshiire - Wall closets where futon, blankets, and seating cushions are usually stored.
> 
> A bit on the Senju family:  
> Butsuma's wife, a Hatake woman who's yet to be named, had extreme difficulties getting pregnant. She is the birth mother of Itama, and nearly died during childbirth. Though the council encouraged Butsuma to divorce his wife when she was unable to give him children, he refused, and they brought Yoai into the family instead. Yoai is the birth mother of both Hashirama and Kawarama, though she's considered as more of a surrogate mother than anything else. Yoai, Butsuma, and Butsuma's wife are all very close, and all three take part in raising the children.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hatake Akamu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else agonize over naming characters? Or is that just me?

If Akamu had the option to ask the Great Sage a single question, to solve one of the great mysteries of the vast, wondrous world about her, she would ask for him, in all his wisdom, to explain why some unknown  _imbecile_ thought to build a compound so far in the _damned north_.

She hated the cold. Hated how stiff her legs felt, and how difficult even gripping a kunai became. At this point, she was considering _paying_ someone to clear off the road, to make it just that much easier to walk the short distance left until she was home. Her furs provided some comfort, at least, and she pulled them up closer to her face. The snow couldn’t freeze on them, which was more than she could say for her own hair. And her eyelashes. How had no one thought to tell her she’d be living in a place where she’d have to deal with _frozen eyelashes_?

At times like this, she wished to be back in her tribe, who had already migrated as far south as possible, to the blessed warmth of the Tea Country coastline. What she wouldn’t give to feel the hot sand at her feet, the ocean lapping gently at her shins as she waded in.

Home came into view, and she stormed passed the on-duty guard, not sparing them so much as a glance in her mission to get _warm_. This particular idiot seemed to have at least an inkling of self-preservation, since he let her go without a word of protest. Guess chewing out that other idiot from last month had been worth the effort after all.

It was still only midday, so her pups and husband would be up and about. That thought had her perking up, trudging through the snow with a bit less disgust than usual. The pups would probably be in their lessons, besides her littlest one, but no one could stop her from popping in to see them.

Their gate was apparently determined to delay her. She scowled down at the useless thing, frozen shut and _taunting_ her as it was. Why, exactly, did they bother with one in the first place? Any shinobi of even the lowest caliber could hop right over?

Her righteous fury was interrupted oh so rudely by happy squealing, and all that anger quickly melted away at the sound. Ah, right. The gate kept her pups in, nice and safe. She hopped over the offending bit of wood, heading right for the toddler she could hear moving about in the side garden.

Kawarama could barely move, bundled up as he was, in his thick coat, gloves, and scarf, a wool hat tugged down to cover his little ears from the biting cold. That certainly didn’t stop him from trying. He ran about the yard as best he could, tongue stuck out as far as it would go to catch the snowflakes that drifted down around him.

His attempts to catch the snow were immediately forgotten when he spotted his mother, and Akamu couldn’t help but laugh at how truly adorable her pup was, stumbling through the snow towards her and barely able to lift his short, little legs up far enough to clear the drifts in his way.

She let him try to make it to her, but stepped forward quickly when he started to fall, catching him just in time to save him from disappearing into the nasty cold piles below. He snuggled right into the furs draped around her shoulders, clutching her tight as she moved them both to the porch.

Yoai smiled up at her as she approached, book in hand and a mug of tea at her side. She accepted the ball of energy that Akamu plopped into her lap, fussing with the tufts of brown hair that stuck out from underneath Kawarama’s hat.

“Is Butsuma back yet?” Yoai hummed, a knowing glint in her eyes at the question. Akamu bent down to kiss her cheek, turning back to her pup busy bouncing in Yoai’s lap. “Do you want to come in side with Kaa-san, or play some more with Yoai?”

Kawarama’s whole face scrunched up in deep concentration as he pondered what would clearly be the single most important decision of his life. After a serious nod, he brightened right back up, bouncing and clapping in his excitement. “Gonna play!”

Her pups were all unfairly cute. She kissed his cheek too, and headed inside to the blessed warmth awaiting her. Thank the great sage above Yoai was such a dear, because she couldn’t imagine sitting out there. Even if it meant her pups could play. She shuddered at the thought, and made plans to properly thank her properly later.

As soon as she had stripped out of the multiple layers weighing her down, Akamu sniffed the air, focusing in on her husband’s scent and heading straight for him. He was no doubt busy boring himself, which simply wouldn’t do. That man was determined to work himself into an early grave. It had become a personal mission of hers to distract him whenever possible - and it was only a happy coincidence that such distractions left her quite satisfied as well.

She expected him to be in his office, but found him in the living room instead, his nose stuck in a scroll as he paced the room. It brought a soft smile to her lips when he didn’t so much as twitch at her presence. Shinobi were always on edge, prepared to notice the smallest change in their environment even when busy reading. To not instantly snap to attention meant, even on a subconscious level, her dearest husband trusted her with his life.

Still, that scroll simply had to go. She strolled right over and plucked it from his hands, tossing it in the general direction of one of their chairs. Butsuma’s puzzled blinking was certainly a treat, and she snickered at the rather unconvincing frown he turned at her.

“I was reading that.”

“And now you’re paying attention to me.” She gave him a quick peck before pulling him close, resting her chin on the top of his head. Her husband was an adorably short man.

“Did you miss me, Tsuma?” He grumbled at the name, but made no real effort to get away, relaxing into her as she started thread her fingers through his hair. His feigned offense only made him all the more endearing.

Their definitely-not-cuddling, if one were to ask her husband, was cut short by her oldest pup barreling down the hallway. He practically slid into the room, face all flushed from the cold and the most ridiculous grin splitting his face.

“Hashirama, what have we said about running indoors?” His all-consuming excitement drowned out her light scolding, and he flung himself at her, all bright eyes and too much energy.

“Kaa-san, you’re back! Welcome home!”

Honestly, he was far too sweet for his own good. She ruffled his hair, pulling back to give his forehead a kiss. He managed to still just long enough for her to do so, going right back to his bouncing after. There was no question that he was Kawarama’s brother - the two acted just alike, and had the same never-ending supply of bounce.

He gasped suddenly, tugging her arm to make sure he had her attention. “You have to meet my friend, wait right here!”

“No running.” Butsuma shook his head as he called after his son, who had already bolted out of the room.

“I’ve been gone for a week, and you’re already letting him bring home strays?” Akamu stretched out her travel-sore muscles, heaving a deep, content sigh as her back audibly popped. When she glanced over at her husband, Butsuma was scratching at the back of his neck, something he always did when embarrassed. A knowing grin bloomed on her lips; she loved how easy her husband was to read. “Tsuma, darling, care to tell me who Hashirama’s new friend is?”

“I named him Tobirama.” Named him? How interesting. Butsuma had his eyes focused on decisively not-her, and Akamu knew her grin had turned wicked. How could she not play with such easy prey?

Unfortunately, she didn’t get the chance to torture him - yet, anyway - since her pup had managed to collect his friend and drag him back, thundering his way with all the grace and quiet of a drunken deer.

Speaking of which, she still needed to apologize to the Nara for that… _unfortunate_ incident.

“Kaa-san, this is Tobirama! Otou-san said he could stay with us!”

Akamu had never in her life been ashamed of her instincts, let alone even bothered to question them. They had saved her life, kept her and her pups well-fed and warm, and even led her down the path of marrying her husband. But, when Hashirama drug his friend to her - a child, a small, malnourished looking boy with wide-eyes and a tension in his whole body that screamed wariness and ingrained fear - all she wanted to do was snarl at it, to wrench her pup away and hide him somewhere far away from the thing at his side.

She bit her tongue hard, forcing herself to not lash out. This was a child. A pup. Anyone who would hurt such a small thing was vile, the lowest of creatures that crawled on this earth.

“Oh, he did now?” Her smile felt far too forced to fool anyone, but she crouched down in front of the two boys. She did her best to sniff at him without being too obvious. Nothing out of the ordinary with his scent, though. And all he did was stare at her hair, reaching up and ghosting a touch over some of his own.

When Hashirama caught the movement, he beamed at his friend, patting his head like he would Itama’s or Kawarama’s - with the air of a proud brother who doted on and adored his little siblings. Something inside of her screamed at the contact, and demanded she snatch her pup’s hand away from the boy’s head. She pushed that down, too.

“Look, Tobira, you match!” The boy seemed embarrassed to have been caught gawking, flushing near scarlet and stared pointedly down at his toes - though he still kept peeking up through his own white hair, amazement written all over his face at the discovery of someone who looked like him.

“Did you finish your lessons, Hashirama?” Her pup wilted at the reminder, and she near started at the sound of her husband’s voice, having completely forgotten he was there. Hashirama grabbed his friend’s hand and tugged him away, clear disappointment forming into the cutest pout as he walked dejectedly back out of the room.

It prickled her skin to let them disappear from sight, but she forced herself to stay put, taking in a deep breath to calm herself. Her pup was fine. Safe. Even if her instincts screamed otherwise, he was safe.

“Where did you find that one?” She did her best to keep the wariness out of her tone, but knew the effort was wasted. Her husband knew her just as well as she knew him, after all.

“He’s an orphan. Abandoned.”

She turned towards her husband, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Is he ours, then?”

“Not officially. He won’t bear my name.”

She hummed noncommittally, frowning at her own thoughts. There was just something… _off_ about that boy, something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t his looks; she had met people with albinism before, and had no difficulty reading them like the rest. And he smelled normal enough. So what was it about him that had her hackles raised?

She must have stayed quiet for too long, because Butsuma stepped over to snake his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest. “I thought you wouldn’t mind.” He sounded guilty. She sighed, laying her head back against him.

“Hashirama does seem quite smitten.” He hummed in reply, giving her cheek a nudge with his nose. And, really, she had no reason to turn the boy away. She nudged her husband right back, her lips quirking up at one corner. “Tell me how, exactly, someone like _you_ raised such a social butterfly?”

Butsuma chose to ignore her teasing, because he was rude and no fun. His nose went right back to his scroll when he stepped away.

Akamu pursed her lips. It was definitely time for a distraction - even she needed one, after that nerve-wracking experience. She cocked her head to the side, making sure to flutter her lashes just so. “Do you have much work left, Tsuma?”

The deep-set frown showed his reluctance to nod, and the wrinkles on his forehead told her the smallest of pushes would make him fold. Putting on her best disappointed face, she sighed heavily, stepping towards the hallway.

“And here I was hoping you’d help wash my hair. But, if you’re too busy…”

It only took a few moments for him to catch her in the hall, placing his hands on her hips and playing right into her plans. She smirked as she led him to the washroom, preening under his attention. Honestly, her husband was far too easy, and made for the best distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Hatake Akamu (明武) - "Bright warrior"  
> Tsuma (妻) - Akamu’s pet name for Butsuma. It can mean spouse or dear/my dear, but it’s normally used as “wife.”
> 
> Butsuma's not actually that short. Akamu's just taller than him, and loves to tease.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senju Yoai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sure I like this one, but meh.

Yoai couldn’t hold back the swell of pride and joy that filled her, thanking the medic before slipping on her shoes and heading out the door. It was too early to know for certain, perhaps, but she paid that little mind, pulling her jacket on as she stepped off the porch to make her way home.

Spring had come early this year, flowers and trees budding in the cool weather, a light dusting of pollen staining the buildings and training posts she walked by. The seasonal rains had yet to hit them, leaving the air heavy with humidity, her skin damp and chill in the breeze. At least the house would be pleasantly warm; Akamu couldn’t tolerate even nice spring weather this far north, and insisted on having a fire going up to near summer some years.

Some kids went barreling past her, being sure to give polite, if rushed, bows to her before giving one boy chase once more. She let one hand drift to her belly, a soft smile blooming as she watched them run off after each other, shaking her head lightly as she continued on home. Her own contributions to the clan might pale in comparison to their fierce warriors, but she took great pride in them all the same. And the boys were all growing fast, too busy with their lessons or training with Butsuma to fill the house with such carefree laughter anymore. It will be nice to hear that again soon.

At least the house wasn’t empty today. She hung her jacket and scarf up as the door shut behind her, slipping off her shoes to head into the living room. Tobirama was crouched down in front of the fireplace, busy feeding the fire, lifting his head in a silent welcome and nodding towards the sofa. The snoozing lump there sniffed quietly in his sleep, and Yoai pulled the blanket down just enough to peek in at him, brushing a tuft of hair out of his face to feel his forehead.

Not too hot, but still warmer than normal. She stroked Kawarama’s cheek, sighing at the flushed color. His health hadn’t improved much over the last few years. Hardly a month could go by without some form of bug afflicting him. It was more than a little worrying for a future shinobi. There was no telling what sort of sickness might infect him out away from the safety of the compound.

“Thank you for caring for him, Tobira.” She carded her fingers through Kawarama’s hair, glad that he could sleep through such things now. Normally, she would never leave the boys home alone while both Akamu and Butsuma were away, but Tobirama was a smart boy, and exceptionally responsible for an eleven-year-old. Even Hashirama couldn’t watch the little ones like Butsuma’s ward could.

Having the boys home was a luxury nowadays, and she had every plan to bask in their company. She noted the half-full glass of water and the mostly eaten rice porridge on the kotatsu, knowing full well that had been made just for Kawarama. Tobirama didn’t care for people touching him, but he let her pull him close for a brief hug anyway, leaning in as she pet his hair.

“Have you eaten yet?” He shook his head, letting her lead him off to the kitchen with her hand on his shoulder. With Butsuma and Hashirama gone, off meeting a representative from the Hagoromo clan, and Akamu off on her own mission, no doubt taken as an excuse to run down south for a few days of warmth, she had significantly less mouths to feed. They still had some fish, so she pulled that out, humming a nonsensical tune as she reached for the rice as well.

“Tobira, could you prepare the fish for me?” She didn’t have to look back to know he would, busying herself with chopping some onions and sweet peppers. More veggies would be preferable, but Itama was such a picky eater. She knew better than to even think she wasn’t spoiling him absolutely rotten, but what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

With the pan going, peppers and diced onion sizzling away, she wiped her hands clean and got out another skillet to cook the fish. She dropped it as soon as she turned around, just missing her toes as she rushed forward, shooing a very confused Tobirama right to the sink.

“Tobirama, _what_ are you doing?” She shoved his hands into the warm water, soaping him up and scrubbing them as she scolded. “You cannot eat that raw, you should know that!”

The poor dear’s eyebrows scrunched together, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and confusion. She sighed softly as she dried his hands, soothing his hair back afterwards and titled his chin up to meet her eyes.

“Tobira, you can’t eat home-made sashimi. You could get really sick.”

“I’ve never gotten sick before…” He squirmed a bit, and she seriously hoped he hadn’t been sneaking bites of raw fish all this time.

“You haven’t been giving any to Itama or Kawa, have you?” She relaxed at the shake of his head, still frowning but fully aware anger was not the proper response here. Instead of scolding further, she made him promise to never do it again, going back to fixing the late lunch and leaving it at that.

She had just finished plating the food, placing it on the table and reaching back to untie her apron, when a thud on the roof had her head snapping up. Tobirama stilled next to her, his nostrils wide and eyes narrowed as they both stared at the ceiling, ears straining to catch any wayward sounds.

“Tobi, why don’t you fetch your brother for lunch?” She kept her tone calm and natural, praying he would catch on. He was a clever boy; no one called him Tobi, and Itama was the only one of her boys that had insisted on calling him brother, throwing full blown fits the first year when she used to try to correct him.

To her relief, he left the room without question, ghosting down the hall towards Itama’s room. She grabbed a knife off the counter, wishing she had re-hidden the kunai around the house after Kawarama had gotten older. Whoever was currently padding across their roof had to be skilled, sneaking past the perimeter guards and making it all the way to the main house. Kenjutsu might be her strong suit, but paring knives weren’t exactly fit for the job. She didn’t have time to look for a better weapon, heading straight for the living room to protect her youngest.

They attacked just as she walked through the doorway, successfully separating her from Kawarama. She didn’t allow herself to panic, managing to cut two down before they recognized her as a legitimate threat. In the midst of flipping the next over, throwing them towards the fire and filling the room with the stench of burnt flesh and pained screams, she caught a glimpse of the clan symbols on some of their armor: Hagoromo and Uchiha. They had been set up.

The enemy outnumbered her, and Yoai cursed her lacking skills. She had never been a warrior, thought herself safe here, away from the war. It would be her end now. She tightened her grip on the small knife and jabbed it into an Uchiha’s neck, feeling the tip snap off as she jerked it back out before the now-limp body could fall.

A Hagoromo ran her through, the tantō slipping out as she twisted to snap his neck. Her gut was bleeding heavily; she didn’t let herself think on it. There was no time to mourn an unnamed child when Kawarama was still in danger. She jerked around, movement slowed by blood loss, lips sneering as she saw another Hagoromo reaching for her boy.

She grabbed a kunai and hurled it towards the bastard, but it hit a second too late. Kawarama’s body had been sleep and sick hazed, his own struggling weak and all for naught as the enemy shinobi gutted him in his own home.

His body fell back to the sofa, blood choking him, and Yoai raged. Her wounds weighed her down, darkness creeping into the edges of her vision, but she would be _damned_ if a single one of those vile creatures got away from her.

All but two fell by her hands, the last taken down by a bloodied and furious Butsuma. Her legs shook beneath her, breath coming in desperate gasps, vision and head swimming as she swayed.

It was Hashirama who caught her as she fell, the sound of his pleas distant. A scream of pure rage and horror echoed from somewhere nearby, but she already couldn’t place the deep tenor of that voice.

The sight of her Itama peering over her, safe in Tobirama’s arms, had her relaxing in relief. Cold crept over her, but she didn’t mind it all that much. She would be able to hold her precious Kawarama soon, after all. Her last thoughts were to the great sage, silent prayers that her other children wouldn’t be joining them for many years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, questions and comments are both welcomed and greatly appreciated :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butsuma's failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I never thought I'd enjoy writing about Butsuma :/ But, here we are *shrug*

He had failed.

The graves were still soft, loose earth yet to settle over the dead. The priest stood above the stone plaques, a civilian man from an unknown clan, age wrinkling his face and streaking gray into his beard. He held a wooden bowl in his hands, hand carved and polished to shine, water collected from the nearby spring reflecting sunlight back onto his face. His voice carried past the grieving children, white noise about the site, prayers for the fallen warrior and the one she died protecting.

Butsuma was called forward. He held two kunai in one hand, gripped so tight his knuckles were as white as the strips of cloth in his other. Dozens of eyes watched him as he stepped towards the short man, scrutinizing his stance and composure; he did not waver, dipping one white cloth into the water, wrapping it around the handle of a kunai before doing the same with the other. One was placed at each of the graves, propped against the short headstones. Their owners had served the clan well. With this, the spirits would know it was time to rest.

His hands wanted to shake, so he clenched them tighter at his side, voice strong as he spoke the final prayers for the dead. His throat was dry, his entire body felt heavy, his mind tired and worn. But he could not afford even a moment to gather himself, here, at the graves of two people he had loved so dearly.

Whispers followed him everywhere he went, clicked tongues and hushed tones when his clansmen thought themselves away from prying ears. Their clan head had shown weakness. Butsuma had allowed their enemies to fool him, to sneak into their lands, their compound, their _home_ , and kill some of their own. How could he lead them when he failed to spot an enemy? How could he protect their children, the very future of the Senju clan, if he couldn’t even protect his own?

The points were valid - if rough salt to his wounds. He deserved the anger, the mistrust; he knew this, just as he knew he could not let the vultures descend upon him. If he fell, his sons and wards would fall next. And his soul would never rest if he failed them as well.

As the last prayer echoed in the field, the priest stepped forward, pouring the remaining spring water over the graves. His clansmen offered quiet words of honor for the dead before trickling away, leaving the family to see the spirits to rest.

The priest began to speak, Butsuma turning just enough to see he’d approached his ward, placing a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. The hand was jerked back suddenly, and a tight expression replaced the one of quiet sympathy the man had kept plastered on for the ceremony.

It took the man a moment to find his voice, and it was as tight as his face when he finally spoke. “Come, child. It’s not our place to mourn now.”

Processing words, even when paying attention to them, had become a difficult task. Butsuma’s mind was still fogged, slowed down by the weight of his loss. Before he could properly take the meaning in, Hashirama was speaking up, confusion mixing in with the horror and sadness so evident in his wide eyes.

“Why can’t he stay?” His eldest clutched his only remaining brother closer to him, Itama’s head buried in his chest while his whole body shook from his tears. Tobirama had stood near them the entire morning, the tight fists at his side the only sign of his turmoil. Now, the priest had stepped between them, attempting to shoo the boy away from his family with the rest of the retreating visitors.

“It’s the family who sees the souls off to their resting place. Our presence will disturb their journey.” He had tucked his hands into his sleeves, arms crossed in front of him as he stared warily down at Butsuma’s ward. There was the slightest pinch to Tobirama’s face now, something so small and insignificant it could have been nothing, and it had Butsuma snapping out of his haze in an instant.

“He stays.” The priest started to protest, but paled quickly under Butsuma’s stare. He scurried off after that, collecting his staff from where it leaned against a nearby oak, the metal rings at its top clinking together in his haste. The man was a coward, and Butsuma hoped he never had to see his face again.

As the man left, his ward began to fidget, scooting closer to him. When he peeked up at Butsuma, hesitantly giving his sleeve a tug to get his attention, the sheer guilt on the boy’s face made Butsuma want to run that priest down and stab him - let his soul be damned for it, no one should make a _child_ feel such guilt over mourning their _family_.

“Will they find rest if I stay?” Tobirama worried his lower lip between his teeth, and Butsuma found he couldn’t answer past his anger. His sons had to step forward in his place, Itama reaching out to grip his ward’s hand, tugging him closer to the comfort pile they’d made of themselves.

It should have been him comforting his sons, his ward, but Hashirama had always been far more suited for such things. The boy had such a gentle soul, a compassionate nature he could have only gotten from Yoai, and even Tobirama was able to relax in his arms.

Kawarama had been the same. Had loved fiercely and made friends with evvery person and critter he came across. His little boy used to bring home all manor of creatures, snakes and spiders and beetles; used to hide them in his room, tucked into the sheets of his futon, no matter how Yoai would scold him for it.

They had both been such kind souls, and had left behind nothing but husks and the ghosts of their laughter. And it was all because _he had failed them_.

“Why?” Hashirama’s cheeks were streaked with tears, his breaths hitched despite his attempts to stay strong for his brother. He turned his wide eyes on his father, and Butsuma wished he could coddle him as he used to - when he was still an only child, tormented by night terrors, rushing off to the comfort of his parents with the same lost look on his face. When he used to crawl between them in their crowded futon, drifting off with his small right right on Butsuma’s chest, clutching his father’s yukata in his tiny fists.

“Otou-san, why did they have to die?”

He wanted to give him an answer, wanted to have one. But all he could do was shake his head, a bitter taste in his mouth and thick on his tongue. “That is war, son.”

“That’s not…” He took a moment to wipe his eyes, pulling Itama closer against his chest. Tobirama stumbled a bit from the movement, his hand still clutched tight in the youngest boy’s grip, but settled himself against them, his eyes not once leaving the fresh graves before them. “Can we not _end_ it? End the war?”

Truly, he was Yoai’s son. Dreaming of an end to the bloodshed, an end to the madness around them. But dreaming had not saved her, and neither would it save his son.

“All you can do is fight, Hashirama, and live just one more day.” The war would kill that part of him, destroy any hope of peace the boy might have. Butsuma could see the beginnings of it already; Hashirama’s eyes had dulled since his first kill, bags growing dark under his eyes from the nightmares that plagued him. It would only get worse from here.

It sickened him, set his stomach churning, sacrificing his own son to his clan, to the war. Knowing all they did went against Hashirama’s very nature. That it was expected of him, as clan head, to swallow his paternal instincts and force his son’s hand, to mold him into a weapon against his will.

No one could afford to seem weak, not when the war waged around them, finding its way into their homes. It might break his son’s spirit, but the boy would be slaughtered if he wasn’t prepared. Butsuma was damned either way; Hashirama might hate his father for pushing him, but at least his son would be _alive_ to do so.

“Don’t stay long. We train in the morning.” He couldn’t stay here; he could feel his composure beginning to slip, his breath catching on the lump forming in his throat. The ghosts of his own siblings were threatening to haunt him, dogging his steps as he made his way home.

They deserved more time to mourn - more time than he could give them. But he could not, _would not_ , lose them as well. All he could do for his sons now was ensure they were prepared; he would train them himself, and raise them to be beyond just capable shinobi. They would be exceptional, strong enough to weather whatever may come their way.

It’s all he could do for them, in the end.

Akamu had settled herself on the floor to do her own rites, lit incense smoking the air and prayer beads tight in her hand. He hadn’t known where else to go, but refused to disturb her, staying silent as he watched her pray. When her prayers were done, she pushed herself up, padding over to him and stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

His little Kawa was dead, buried and gone from this world. His eldest was old enough to be forced on the battlefield now and had already tasted his first blood. Tobirama had killed as well, and though there had been no hesitation in his movements, no nightmares to haunt him after, there was no one that war did not infect with its madness eventually.

“When did I become my father?” He sounded lost even to his own ears, and swallowed hard against the bile creeping into his throat. He had done everything in his power to not emulate that man, disallowing children in his army and refusing to lay a hand upon his own. And yet he became more and more like him by the day, the man staring back at him through his own reflection.

“If you were anything like that man, I would’ve killed you already.” He heard Akamu’s words but couldn’t find it in him to respond, just stared off past her shoulder at the blank walls of their bedroom, his thoughts drowning him further. Hashirama’s future had been decided at his birth, and his ward’s would be stolen from him as well. But Itama…

Itama was his youngest now, too young to have seen battle. If his training went as planned, he wouldn’t see it for years, might not even be forced to kill for many as well. And the boy was softer than even his brothers; the war would do more than break his spirit, it would kill him.

“Not Itama.” Akamu cocked her head to the side, and he had to clear his throat to continue. “Itama will start training as a medic next week.” Their medics were trained to be just as fierce as their soldiers, but never saw the front lines. It might be selfish, but the clan would not have his youngest. They would not corrupt his Itama as well.

He let Akamu pull him close, resting his head against her shoulder, finally letting go of the iron grip he’d had on his control. Tomorrow, he would have to be the clan head once more, unaffected by the grief ripping out of him, without flaw. But he allowed himself this moment, his wife’s fingers running through his hair as he shook apart in her arms. For now, just this once, he would let someone else be strong for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like in canon, Butsuma fully believes the best thing he can do for his children is raise them to be "capable shinobi." Here, however, it's more he feels he has no choice in the matter, both because he's clan head (and therefore must do everything with the clan's interests in mind, above everything else) and because of the war. If he could have his way, his sons would be shinobi but would also be able to be themselves and not just tools for the clan. He's putting his foot down about Itama - he'll still be a shinobi, but he won't ever see the battlefield if Butsuma has his way. Also, Butsuma doesn't allow child soldiers in this story - he does allow them to take some missions, but only in Senju territory, and only if accompanied by himself or with a select group of people.
> 
> The funeral rites mentioned aren't based on anything I've come across. Just random shit I threw together.
> 
> Also, dear lord, my motivation has been completely drained lately D: Anyway, these last few chapters haven't been extremely focused on Tobirama (though they've had several important hints about his character and *ehem* _heritage_ ) but we'll be getting a lot more of him soon, I promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uchiha Madara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Tobirama's future husband's here. And he's fashionably late, as usual.

There wasn’t room for disobedience in a shinobi clan. Even small acts had to be heavily punished, defiance beaten out of children and replaced with deference as soon as they could grip a kunai - the wrong question could cost lives in the field, after all, and every soldier counted in such times of war.

That being said, Madara had a secret. His rebellious stage had barreled into him rather suddenly, and it had hit him hard. A grin split his face as he snuck into the kitchen, his eyes scouring the shadows for any hint of movement. A wicker basket hung from his arm, its inside padded with one of the older blankets he’d found shoved in the back of his oshiire. He only just managed to keep his snickering silent as he tucked a few loaves of fresh-baked bread into his basket, followed shortly by a decent hunk of cheese and a jar of their mildest pepper jam - leftover from the batch he’d made for his mother’s last birthday.

He froze for a minute, standing stalk still with one outstretched, following someone’s chakra as they entered a room on the other side of the house. After making sure they weren’t headed his way, he shoved a few fruits in with the rest of his haul, making off with it before someone could catch him in the act.

Avoiding the guard patrols was literal child’s play at this point, though he would deny even thinking that he was a child anymore, and he took off at a full sprint as soon as he hit the tree line.

As expected, his usual spot was blissfully quiet and empty when he arrived. The river flowed nearby, the sound of water helping ease the constant tension from his shoulders. It was still a bit early for lunch, but he set up his picnic anyway, shaking out the blanket before flopping himself down on it and tearing off some bread to chew on.

“Madara! You came back!”

So much for peace and quiet. He groaned, throwing himself back to the ground and blocking his eyes with his arms. “You say that _every time_! I told you I’d be here.” He braved a peek up, only to be blinded by the idiot’s stupid grin.

“I know. I’m just happy to see you.” Hashirama somehow managed to smile even wider. Madara had to push him over to sit back up, and didn’t bother hiding his laughter as the other boy squeaked, pouting as he rubbed at his sore backside.

His friend was an idiot.

“Help me eat this. I brought too much.” Madara shoved some bread and jam at his friend, pulling out a kunai to slice them some cheese. He scowled at his friend’s knowing smile, ignoring the gratitude in favor of his own food. The Uchiha clan had been more fortunate than most lately, due to a recent alliance with the affluent Hagoromo clan, and he couldn’t exactly _ask_ his friend how his own clan was fairing. Mind you, if anyone asked, he would deny any implication that he was _worried_ \- he’d just so happened to bring enough food for three. It was a coincidence, nothing more; that was his story, and he was sticking to it.

At least when Hashirama’s mouth was stuffed he couldn’t talk. A gentle quiet settled around them, the cool breeze rustling the trees and grass and tossing their hair. Madara breathed in deep the peace between them, savoring the feeling and allowing himself to truly relax in a way he couldn’t elsewhere.

Here, in their secret spot at the river, tucked away in the forest, miles from their clans and the war waging on forever, it was easy to forget all they’d lost. Eiji might not be at home waiting for him, but it hurt a little less when he talked of him to Hashirama, his friend damn near pissing himself with laughter at how the boy had somehow managed to get udon stuck up his nose. Even Isamu seemed more at rest as of late, the nightmares of holding him as he bled out, his intestines spilling out in his hands - the aches dulled, all of it drowned out by his bright friend and the shinning village they’d built in their shared dreams.

Madara wasn’t an idiot. He knew who Hashirama really was - knew who his father was, too. Knew what would happen if his own father discovered this treason. But he was tired of the war, tired of constantly fighting for no real reason. And he was tired of burying his brothers - Izuna was all he had left now, and he would do anything to keep him safe.

His friend might be an enemy, but he understood him more than anyone from his own clan ever had. Besides, Hashirama hadn’t been the one to kill his brothers. Madara had hunted those bastards down himself, and had made sure their deaths weren’t easy.

He watched Hashirama in his periphery, ignoring his friend’s uncultured whining about not liking jam with cheese. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea if the other had recognized him as an Uchiha. His friend _was_ incredibly stupid, but he had a nasty habit of being dangerously perceptive when he wanted to be. Well, if he had, he’d chosen not to mention it - and Madara was more than happy to leave that topic be as well.

He was in the middle of laughing at Hashirama, who had tripped over a large tree root, wailing with big, watery eyes in an attempt to gain some sympathy, when a rather undignified - and horrifyingly familiar - squawk came from the bushes behind them. Before Madara had time to place the sound, his little brother was hurling himself out of the brush, rushing behind him to put his big brother between him and whatever had caused his panic.

“Ghost! A hungry ghost! Kill it, Nii-san!”

“Kill a ghost?” He tried to twist enough to see his brother, but it was near impossible with how tight Izuna was holding him. And what was he on about anyway? He’d told Hikaku to knock it off with those bedtime ghost stories.

“Your friend was followed, Hashirama.”

If anyone asked later, Madara would deny starting at the new voice. He would also deny the undignified sound he made as he whirled around to spot the source. Somehow, the new boy had managed to sneak up on them without so much as a sound, and was watching the two Uchiha from his spot next to Hashirama, sharp red eyes studying them and an unreadable expression on his pale face.

“Don’t just stand there! He’ll eat us! Kill us and eat our corpses!” Izuna dug his feet into the ground, trying his best to push Madara forward. Madara just scowled back at him and stuck his feet to the ground with chakra. Sure, Hashirama’s other friend looked _odd_ , but he didn’t look like a ghost - not like a hungry ghost, anyway. No spitting fire, no horrid stench. And his body seemed proportionate enough.

“He’s not a hungry ghost, you brat. The sun’s still up.” Remembering how the ghosts could only be seen at night, he waved a hand up at the sky to prove his point. His brother looked unconvinced, but notably stopped pushing on his back.

Hashirama stepped towards them then, leaning to the side to beam at Izuna, who was still firmly tucked behind his brother. “You must be Madara’s little brother, right?” When he refused to answer, ducking his head back behind him as Hashirama waved, Madara nodded for him with a nervous scratch at his neck. He found it hard to look away form the new boy; it was weird meeting someone outside of his clan with red eyes, and he’d never met anyone his own age with white hair. He scooted a bit closer, dragging his brother with him as he not so subtly gawked at the boy’s tattoos. How come he got to have tattoos so young?

“Who’s that?” He meant to sound more casual, but the boy had stared to stare right back at him, his mouth twitching down in the barest suggestion of a frown. Hashirama near knocked the poor kid over with an enthusiastic clap to his back, puffing his chest up with sudden and uncharacteristic pride.

“This is my brother, Tobirama!” Tobirama blinked over at his brother with wide eyes, and Madara was glad for the distraction, cursing the heat he had felt building in his cheeks. The new boy had started to say something when Izuna cut in with a hiss, tugging at Madara’s arm to get his attention.

“What are you doing? You can’t talk to _them_!” Madara felt himself pale at the words, and it finally dawned on him just how bad this situation was.

Izuna knew. He knew, and if he said anything, their peace would be broken. Hashirama and him could feign ignorance all they wanted, but their brothers were here. Could they really stay friends, secret allies, if their names were spoken out loud now?

“Why can’t he talk to us?” The tip of Tobirama’s nose scrunched up in offense, and in Madara’s fearful daze he couldn’t help but think how cute it made him look. Izuna poked his head out under Madara’s arm to shoot the boy a scathing glare, and Madara let his arm rest on the smaller boy’s shoulder, feeling a bit better at the protective gesture.

“You’re _Senju_.” The word was spat out, and it hung heavy in the air between them. Madara saw his friend still with him at the name, feeling the horror he saw mirrored in Hashirama’s eyes. “We’re enemies. You don’t talk to _enemies_.”

Madara forgot how to breathe, and his limbs loosened in anticipation of an attack. The blow was coming. It had to be. Hashirama couldn’t let him get away with knowing his name - it felt like the trees were suddenly too close, like his chest was too tight for his lungs.

This was it. Their peace was over. And he didn’t want it to end.

“That makes no sense.” Madara snapped his head over to stare at Tobirama. The boy’s brow was furrowed ever so slightly with genuine confusion. “We should talk _because_ we’re enemies.”

Since he found it quite difficult to speak at the moment, Madara grunted out a questioning noise instead, managing to make it sound like he wasn’t currently struggling to process words. It earned him a lazy shrug in return.

“You’re Uchiha. We’re Senju. Killing each other will only fuel the war.” He paused for a moment, ruby gaze unfocused on the ground between them. “Enough people have died for the war. Only a truce will end the fighting. And truces are reached by talking.”

“Wow.” Hashirama stared over at his brother with bright, watery eyes, and Madara found himself grudgingly agreeing with the inane comment. Wow, indeed. The boy had, in the span of a minute, made more sense to him than over a decade of his elder’s endless drivel. Those few sentences had a flicker of warmth starting up in his gut. Maybe this wasn’t the end after all.

“I’ve never heard you say so much, Tobira! I’m so proud!”

Madara’s eye twitched. Scratch that; apparently they _weren’t_ on the same page. Hashirama tried to throw himself onto his brother, blubbering some nonsense about progress as the boy expertly wriggled free and dodged a second attempt at crushing him. Why was he friends with this idiot again?

Never mind his friend’s dramatics. Madara shook his head, focusing back on the actual issues at hand. “How are we supposed to make a truce?” The two Senju stopped as well, Hashirama sobering up enough from his antics to actually be serious. “We’re not clan heads, we’re not even elders. We don’t have any say in the matter.”

“I know!” Hashirama lit up, a hopeful smile warming his tan face as he stepped forward. “We’ll make our own truce, just between us. Then, when we are clan heads, we’ll make a new truce that includes our clans, too.”

Madara blinked at his friend’s outstretched hand. So he had known. At least that was all cleared up. And really, if they of all people could get along - two clan heirs, sons of the fiercest enemies - _anyone_ could. Live and lead by example, and whatnot.

It only took a moment to make up his own mind, and Madara could feel his own matching, stupid grin split his face as he clasped his best friend’s hand. They could do this. They really could. Together, the both of them would bring an end to this so called endless war.

After a promise to meet again soon, and some more unsightly blubbering from Hashirama, both sets of brothers set off towards their respective homes. Izuna was uncharacteristically quiet the entire way back, his whole face pulled down in a deep frown and his feet dragging. He didn’t say a word until they’d made it up their porch, pausing as his brother held the front door open for him.

“You shouldn’t trust them, Nii-san.”

He didn’t try to respond, nor did he try to stop his brother from heading off somewhere into the compound. It’s not like he knew what to say, anyway. He still wasn’t sure why he trusted Hashirama, couldn’t put the gut feeling he had about the boy to words. He just watched Izuna walk off, then made his way inside to his bedroom. He could ponder the enigma of his own emotions later; skipping study time to meet with his friend meant he had to make it up sometime, and doing it now would let him get to bed at a reasonable time.

His thoughts wandered a bit more than usual as he sat at his desk, pen having a mind of it’s own and filling the margins with sketchy versions of those striking ruby eyes he’s sure he’d be seeing in his dreams that’s night. Hopefully, sensei wouldn’t comment on them when he turned his work in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone’s wondering, Izuna reported to their father that Madara was sneaking off to “see some girl.” Much to the poor boy’s horror, Tajima decided to give him _the talk_. Honestly, he would have preferred to be labeled a traitor. 
> 
> So it's looking like this will have roughly 20 chapters (give or take a few, unless my muse finds more shit to obsess over here, then it might be a whole lot longer), which is honestly a lot longer than I originally thought it would be.
> 
> Names:  
> Eiji (英二) - Great second [son]  
> Isamu (勇) - Courage


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Talk™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since a couple people asked about it, here. I already had it drafted - it was originally going to be included in the last chapter anyway, but I thought it was getting a bit too long. In other words: blame the comments for this cringe XD
> 
> Takes place directly after the last chapter. Has nothing to do with Tobirama (or really the story at large), but gives a good look at Tajima's character at least.

Only an hour had passed when a sharp knock interrupted his studies. Without waiting for a response, his father cracked the door open, demanding for his son to meet him in his office.

Madara felt ill at his father’s tone, but followed shortly after him. He passed Izuna in the hallway and didn’t bother hiding the hurt glare he sent him. The betrayal hadn’t been entirely unexpected - Madara might dream big, but he was a realist at heart, and knew it might come to this - but that didn’t lessen the sting of knowing his last surviving brother had just crushed those big dreams without care.

His father had already settled himself onto his desk cushion when his son entered the room. He motioned for him to shut the door, and Madara knelt before him, his heart in his throat.

“You know why I called you here, Madara.”

He did. He knew exactly why he was here, slumping under his father’s tight gaze, his hopes of a better life for his brother shattered before he could even start to build it. Knowing Tajima was expecting a response, he gave a single nod, swallowing his heart back to his chest.

“I expected better of you. You’re clan heir - everything you do reflects the clan. You speak with their voice, you act upon their wishes.” Tajima leaned forward, stern eyes never once leaving his son’s face. “You’ve done more than disappoint me. Your behavior dishonors them.”

“I’m sorry, Otou-san…” Madara didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done; he was sorry it was over, sorry everything ended because his little brother didn’t trust his best friend. It hadn’t felt like betraying his clan, not even at the beginning. Meeting with Hashirama, letting himself trust him, be his friend - it had felt like being honest with himself. Nothing could make him regret that.

“Your lessons are designed to teach you how to lead, how to properly care for your clan. And yet you’ve been sneaking off away from them!” His father tapped his fingers on his desk, volume raising as his anger showed through his voice. “All to meet up with _some girl_ \- really, son, I thought better of you!”

Madara felt his brain short circuit, thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Some girl…? His father thought he was meeting with a girl…? What had Izuna told him?

Come to think of it, Izuna had to have followed him for some reason. From whatever lecture his father was giving at the moment, as fuzzy as it sounded to Madara’s admittedly befuddled brain, Izuna had been ordered to do so. So his little brother had to give a report of some sort.

Izuna had lied for him. Relief washed through Madara, though he managed to still look thoroughly scolded as he sat there, doing his best to tune back into his father’s speech. He was going to buy Izuna a dozen helpings of dango for this. Scratch that: _two_ dozen.

“Still,” Tajima sighed heavily, most of the anger draining away from him, “You are that age, I suppose. And we haven’t yet had… _that_ talk.”

“That talk?” He sat up straight, giving his father a puzzled look.

“Yes, well.” His father cleared his throat, putting on the same face he used when discussing politics with the elders. It was a little odd to see it here, which only made Madara more confused. “You’re getting older, Madara. Growing into a man. And as you’ve clearly demonstrated, you’re going to have a man’s… _urges_.”

Something told Madara he wouldn’t like where this conversation was headed. His father was staring at him with a pinched expression, as if waiting for him to catch on, but Madara had nothing - besides his intuition screaming _abort abort abort_.

Seeing as his son wasn’t catching on, Tajima apparently decided to cut straight to the point. “When you’re having _relations_ with a woman, and you get an _erection_ , it’s perfectly normal to-”

“ _Tou-san!_ ” Madara nearly chocked, his face burning. This was not happening. _This was absolutely not happening_.

“Don’t you _Tou-san_ me, young man!” His father snapped, embarrassment blooming on his face as well. “Do you think I _want_ to have this conversation? To hear about my son’s _sexual conquests_?”

It took a bit of sputtering, but Madara finally managed to coherently explain that he had _not_ been having sex with some girl - while still letting his father believe he’d been meeting with one.

“Oh _thank god_.” Tajima visibly deflated with relief, slumping forward onto his desk. He eyed his son for a minute, chewing over some thought in his head. The dread that spread across his face had Madara’s insides twisting. “Though, I suppose…you’ll have to have that talk eventually…” His father groaned, reaching for a bottle that had been previously hidden from sight. Madara recognized it as shouchu, and his father took a long drag from it before pinning him with another stern look.

“You’ll be polishing my armor for a week for making me have this talk with you.” Another long drag, then a pause. “Two weeks.”

“I know what _sex_ is, Tou-san.” Madara nearly choked on the word, his pitch raising in his horror. His father gave a disbelieving look, waving his hand.

“Go on, then. Tell me what it is.”

“Well…” He fidgeted on his cushion, looking at the wall, the floor, the bottle of shouchu - anywhere but at the mirrored horror on his father’s face. “I would put my… My, ummm, _part_ inside of a girl’s… _different part_ -see, I get the gist of it!”

He knew from the look alone that his father wasn’t buying it, and the long drag of shouchu cemented his fate.

“Can’t we make it three weeks of polishing and not have this talk?” He had to try, at least, even if he knew bribery wouldn’t work.

“Three weeks, and we’re having the talk.”

Madara groaned loudly, hiding his face in his hands, wishing to be anywhere else at the moment. He’d rather be a _traitor_ than listen to his father discuss _sex_ with him.

Fuck the dango - he was going to _kill_ Izuna. And after this horror, he was tempted to swear off _girls_ for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't spend nearly as much time as usual editing this, so there might be a copious amount of errors. But hey, with this actually being included, we get to see a bit of Tajima (probably the only time we'll see him).
> 
> Questions/comments, as always, are both welcomed and greatly appreciated! Also (spoilers), next chapter will reveal Itama's fate :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senju Itama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the _atrocious_ “fight scene” ahead. It might be small, but it’s also horrible.

Itama crouched low on the soft earth, shifting his weight as the moss pressed down at his feet. The plant he examined was small, much smaller than expected, but had the right shape and color to its leaves. He pulled out a kunai, cutting off a swatch and pushing himself back up. It may or may not be what he’s looking for, but it’s been the closest so far.

Sunlight filtered in through the towering oaks and pines, making it easy enough to find his way. The root networks this far west stayed mostly underground as well, unlike the trees that grew nearest the compound - Hashirama had mentioned once that it was on purpose, meant to make ground travel more difficult. Itama was just glad to not stub his toe so much out here.

Sensei hadn’t moved from his spot, too busy gathering his own herbs to follow his student, filling the leather satchel hanging at his side with various roots and snipped stems.

“What did you find?” He picked up a stem, dull eyes unfocused as he brought it close to his nose, pinching the leaves to release its scent. Yasuo-sensei didn’t glance at him once, only shoved the stem into his satchel before moving on, expecting him to follow.

“Rue, sensei.” Having yet to have a decent growth spurt, Itama had to trot to keep up. Working quick was always safer when outside the compound. Even teaching had to be done with haste when at war. Besides, Itama was used to people brushing him off, not giving him much time to learn or speak. Most days, it didn’t even bother him anymore.

Sensei snapped his fingers at him while they walked, his footfalls quiet next to Itama’s own rustling feet. He fiddled with his own small pouch, handing the swatch over as he ducked away from a reaching bush.

“And what do we use rue for?”

Itama had expected the question, just as he had expected the uninterested tone. One sprawling root caught his sandal, making him trip and catch himself on the rough bark of an oak, scratching his palms. He dashed to catch back up, not so much as a hitch in his sensei’s stride at his delay.

“We make an antidote, for snake bites.” Tobirama wouldn’t have tripped. He also wouldn’t be making so much noise as he walked. Itama scowled at himself, wiping his stinging palms on his hakama. Walking silent - like a _real_ shinobi - shouldn’t be this difficult. Everyone else could do it.

His sensei hummed, sounding more bored than anything else. “You are correct, on both accounts. But tell me, Itama-kun,” he stopped once more, squinting at a winding vine cutting into greyed-out bark. The tree looked smothered, as if the vine was choking all life out of it. “What do we pair rue with to cure the poison?”

The clan had only a handful of texts dealing with medicinal herbs. Most were part of Hashirama’s personal collection, and contained detailed diagrams, sketches, details on how to care for and grow each species, alongside the typical uses of the plants in question. Some were admittedly outdated, but Itama had read them all anyway, going so far as to borrow his mother’s candles to read into the late evening.

He didn’t know the answer. Even after all of that, hours spent scouring the scrolls, begging Hashirama to help him for just a minute or two, taking notes until his fingers cramped from the effort - even _after all of that_ , his mind drew a blank.

“I don’t know, sensei.” The words tasted foul. Fouler still when he thought of his eldest brother, how he had such a knack for all things that grew from the soil. Hashirama would’ve known the answer.

Sensei glanced in his direction for a moment, patting his head. It made him feel small. He hated it. “Oleander. We mix rue with oleander. You’ll know it by its sweet scent.” His sensei continued on, flicking his wrist to get Itama to follow. “Always be sure to pair the two together. On its own, oleander is lethal.”

“Yes, sensei.” They pushed through a patch of saplings, reaching the meet-up location agreed upon before beginning their herb search. Hiro was waiting for them already, inspecting the last trap on her patrol, being sure the wind hadn’t messed with the camouflage.

She was their guard. Itama knew enough to recognize that. His father refused to let him out of the compound without several other shinobi watching over him, as if he knew his son couldn’t protect himself. He also knew his brothers left the compound frequently, on patrols with no guards or bored sensei along with them. No one having to slow their stride so his siblings could keep up.

“We need to head back, sensei.” His glorified babysitter stood back up, dusting the dirt from her hands, flicking a wary gaze westward. The forest’s edge stood a dozen or so meters away, marking the border between Senju territory and no man’s land. A few miles of neutral ground was all that separated them from Uchiha land now; Itama shuddered at the thought, moving closer to his sensei. Somewhere out that direction, the savages that stole little Kawarama from him lived. He didn’t like thinking of them.

Yasuo walked right past the shinobi, inspecting a bit of foliage that Itama couldn’t tell apart from the rest around it. “The herb harvest is almost done, Hiro-san. I don’t need long.” He pulled out a kunai, using it to dig at some roots. Hiro scowled at his back, though Itama wasn’t sure if for his words or the gross misuse of the weapon. Her hand fell to her side as she scanned the area, resting on the handle of her wakizashi - or was that a katana?

Great. Something else he didn’t know. Itama kicked at a patch of wildflowers, wanting nothing more than to act like a child and cry. But he couldn’t be a child anymore; he scrubbed at his eyes, peeking over at his sensei and the shinobi. At least they hadn’t seen him get upset.

“Taicho.” Another shinobi dropped from the trees, startling Itama enough to knock him over. Neither Yasuo or Hiro had so much as blinked at the newcomer, though they both spared a moment to look his way. He flushed, beyond relieved when Hiro looked away to address her subordinate.

“Report, Eiko.”

Eiko took a moment to kneel, straightening up to address her captain. She barely stood up to the shinobi’s shoulder, and couldn’t have been more than a year older than Hashirama. But she held herself like a soldier, and Itama was certain she’d seen battle. Even her armor seemed a bit used, though it wasn’t like the full sets he’d seen his parents wear.

“The northern border is secure. All traps are still set, with no signs of disturbance.”

“And the eastern border?”

The younger shinobi shook her head, high ponytail swaying behind her. “He’s yet to check in. Should I offer assistance, taicho?”

“No need. He’s not been gone long.” Hiro nodded in his direction, a deep frown stretching at the scar running down her cheek. “We’ll see him home first. If he’s not reported back by then, we’ll head-”

Hiro jumped back, blade drawn. Clinking metal echoed off the trees, five kunai deflected before Itama even knew they were under attack. He saw Yasuo move as well, blocking the projectiles and dodging another, a thick gash sliced on his cheek.

Eiko wasn’t so lucky. One shuriken hit her neck, and she fell lifeless.

Seven shinobi fell upon them. Sensei pulled him back, intent on protecting him at all costs, but did not last long. Itama scrambled back, kunai gripped too tight in his hand, blood rushing in his ears.

Sensei was dead. Eiko-san was dead. They died just like Yoai had, right in front of him, falling, bleeding.

His back hit a tree, weapon lost to the brush around him. Bark rough at his fingertips. He had to hide. They would kill him.

One step, and the twang of breaking wire. It cut into his skin, wrapping his arms to his sides. Twigs cut his face as he fell, a rock sharp in his temple, and his vision blurred.

The fighting died down, crashes of metal and tearing flesh still echoing in his ears but not fresh in the air. Footsteps disturbed the grass near him, the shinobi no longer caring if they were heard.

A harsh kick to his side, pain spreading like wildfire from his ribs, and he was on his back. He bit his lip to keep from whimpering, daring to open his eyes and look at the man towering over him.

“Huh, looks like I caught one.” He had no pupils, just dark purple pits for eyes. His hair was blood red, and he grinned down at Itama, crouching next to him.

“Hurry up. We need to go.”

Itama tried to lift his head at the voice, to see how many there were, but he was stopped by metal on his cheek. The blade of a kunai, tip splitting his skin. He couldn’t stop shaking.

“Are you gonna cry, boy? Piss yourself?” The man mocked him, pressing the weapon deeper his skin. Watched the blood well there, trickle warm down his cheek. Laughed when Itama whimpered, eyes lit with a dark interest he didn’t understand.

“Mai.” The name had the man’s head snapping to the side, dark eyes narrowed and a sneer at his lips. “Either finish the boy, or I will.”

Itama could only see the man above him, shadowed by the trees. A breeze ruffled the blood-red hair, for a moment making him seem almost human. But his muscles were tensed, jaw tight, eyes focused and burning with irritation.

He withdrew the kunai in a flash, making sure to cut Itama’s cheek deep as he did, drawing a hiss from him. “Ruining my fun.” His tone was almost playful as he pushed himself up, disappearing from his line of sight.

There was a heavy thud. A body hit the ground, followed by curses and drawn weapons. Itama’s eyes widened, and he squirmed, trying to roll onto his side despite his body’s pained protests.

He hadn’t seen Hiro fall. Hadn’t heard her die. Was she still alive?

Something snarled, the sound feral and wild. Agonized screams followed the sound of flesh being rent from flesh. The smell of blood, the sounds of terrified curses and slick tearing of skin.

Itama stopped moving, and held his breath. The men who attacked him were being slaughtered only a few meters away. He shut his eyes tight, feeling hot tears prickle at the corners.

All he’d wanted to do was make Father proud. To see his brothers happy again. And now he was going to die for sure, eaten alive by whatever monster had just delayed his death.

The stench of copper and blood overwhelmed him, something wet touching the gash on his cheek. A sob tore out of him, uncontrollable and weak. He had tried. Tried so hard to be strong and brave, just like his brothers.

“Itama?” A gentle hand cupped his cheek, and his eyes shot open.

His armor was splattered in blood, exposed cloth soaked through and sticking to his skin. Thick streaks of red across his face, hair beginning to matt, stained pink and scarlet. His eyes were wide, breaths shallow, hands shaking.

“Tobira-” He choked on the name, a storm of relief and fear and confusion overtaking him. The wire fell from him, cut loose, and Tobirama clutched him tight in his arms, his grip near painful in his desperation.

On some level, he knew they had started moving, his brother picking him up and carrying him with ease. By the time Itama had finally calmed himself, they had arrived back at the compound. From what he could see over his brother's shoulder, they were in a bedroom, tucked into the corner furthest from the door. He squirmed a bit, trying to look around to properly see where they were, but Tobirama's grip tightened with each twitch, as if determined to not let him move even an inch away.

That was how Akamu found them, huddled in a corner, covered in blood. Itama heard her gasp, his mother rushing over to see him - he tried to break free of Tobirama's iron grip, knowing it was childish to want his mother so badly, but part of his brain reminded him that he  _was_ a child, and he  _needed_ his mother, needed to feel her arms around him to feel safe again.

Her attempts to gather him were met with snarls, and Itama stilled, feeling his brother shaking from the noise ripping out of his chest. It sounded feral, sounded like the monster that had slaughtered the enemy shinobi - he refused to connect the two, to let the image of his doting, loving brother be tainted with the blood drying on both their skins, staining their hair and clothes.

It took an hour to calm him, to loosen the hold he had on Itama. By then, Butsuma had come rushing in as well, hearing reports of an attack and falling to his knees in front of them. It was Father that calmed his brother, hushing his fury and fear, gently removing Itama and placing him in his mother's arms, where he buried himself in the crook of her neck.

That night, after the blood was washed from both of them, Itama wanted nothing more than to crawl into his parent's futon. But one look at his brother, at how close he stuck himself to his side, how Tobirama could barely tear his eyes away from him for more than a moment - and he took his nii-san's hand, leading him down the hall and crawling under the covers next to him, drifting off to the steady beat of his heart and brushed fingers through the white half of his hair.

They both woke up only an hour later, to a sobbing Hashirama. But he had always swung between moods easily, and calmed after only a few minutes, laying himself across his two little brothers and keeping them warmer than any blanket ever could (and snoring loudly in their ears the entire night).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to be out _days_ ago, but the internet's been utter shite, and I kept getting stuck at the "fight scene." I have the utmost respect for anyone who can write action; it is _not_ one of my strong suits.
> 
> The herbs mentioned in this chapter are no longer used for such purposes. Oleander is extremely poisonous, and rue can cause serious rash-like blisters. I went with their medicinal knowledge being incomplete and pre-modern, and their herbal knowledge is based mostly on information from naturalists in ancient Rome. So yeah. Don't do what they do lol.
> 
> Names:  
> Mai (昧) - "Dark" or "Foolish"  
> Senju Yasuo (康夫) - "Healthy man"  
> Senju Eiko (栄子) - "Long-lived child"  
> Senju Hiro (浩) - "Prosperous"
> 
> I like to think that, since they're at war, the Senju often name their children with blessings of sorts, in hopes it will protect them.
> 
> Questions/comments, as usual, are both welcome and greatly appreciated! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senju Touka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was beginning to worry I wouldn't find a place to fit this little devil in

Despite what a certain teenaged plant boy might say, Touka never planned her targets in advance. She preferred to let lady luck decide who would fall victim to her pranks, setting them up in the early hours before the other members of her clan started rousing from sleep. They weren’t always elaborate, of course, for even someone as creative as herself lacked constant inspiration.

Her latest setup was a perfect example of how a creative block could effect even her. Just a simple bucket of mud sitting on the tree branch with her, feet kicking as she waited for some poor sap to walk her way.

Simple, yes. Refined, no. But still one of her all-time favorite methods of causing mayhem.

It took a bit longer than usual for someone to walk into her trap, but that was likely due to the location more than anything else. The river had been calling to her as of late, what with summer getting into full swing, and the pine she’d climbed up had a view of her usual swimming spot - which she planned on taking over once her bucket was good and empty.

When she got a good look at the boy walking her way, his steps all but silent as he moved, she almost thought better of the whole thing.

She knew that boy. Hadn’t spoken to him, maybe, but that hardly mattered. Everyone knew Butsuma’s ward - knew of him, knew what he’d done. It was all anyone would talk about the past few weeks. She’d heard a few of the older folks talking some nonsense about omens, and even her mom had started questioning her clan head’s decision to keep him in the compound.

Apparently, the bodies he’d left behind had made several of the veteran shinobi weak at the knees. Not that Touka could judge them much, since she hadn’t seen them (not for lack of trying, mind. By the time she raced off to see them, there was nothing more than bloodstains on the grass and trees. A  _lot_  of bloodstains, but nothing else to cure her burning curiosity).

Her indecision on whether to wait for a new victim or not was short lived. His hair was just  _too_  white not to mess with, and it would be a great disservice to her own soul to let him go.

The splat of mud had her cackling from her perch, her victim frozen as globs of it ran slowly down his face. She had to mask a fall as purposeful from just the look alone, him all wide-eyed and tensed and  _covered_  in it all - really, it was just a shame her eyes were so wet now, since the scene was just too  _priceless_.

After five minutes of her laughing and him not moving, it started to get less funny. Especially with the way he was just  _standing_  there, shoulders tensing inward, expression guarded and some odd emotion dulling his eyes.

Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. None of her other victims had acted like this - and they certainly hadn’t  _flinched away from her_  when she stepped towards them either. Touka pursed her lips, taking a moment to study him thoroughly. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but it was clear he was watching her right back. And the way he was just standing there was just  _wrong_  - like he was waiting for something else, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what.

Well, if Touka was anything, she was the master of her own world; if she didn’t like something, she’d just have to change it. Mind made up with a decisive nod, she marched right up to the pale boy, grabbed his arm, and started to drag him towards the river, only bothering to throw a demanding “Come on, then!” in explanation his way.

Shoving him into the river proved easy enough, and the clear horror on his face when she demanded for him to take off his shirt sent her straight into another fit - one she gracefully held back as she dunked his head right into the cool water, determined to get every last hint of mud out of his hair. It took some doing, and quite a bit of elbow grease (and more boy wrangling than she was used to. He was more squirrelly than the actual squirrels she hunted on occasion) but the water eventually ran clean enough for her liking.

“See? Mud always washes out.” She gave him a pat on the head before moving on to wring out his now-clean shirt. “No need to let it upset you or anything.”

He gave her a heavy look, one she didn’t understand. But she was hardly going to let that bother her, taking a moment to hang his shirt over a tree branch before turning back to him.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

He certainly took his sweet time responding to such a simple question. Just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, though he seemed notably less hunched in on himself. Still, by the time he answered Touka was ready to throw in the towel (and potentially throw another bucket of mud, too).

“Tobirama. And you’re Touka.”

That wasn’t a question. She cocked her head with a wrinkle of her nose. “How’d you know that?”

“Hashirama’s mentioned you. As has Itama.”

Ah. That made sense. She rolled one shoulder, glancing around the river, already itching for something else to do. It was nearing the time most of the clan crawled out of their futons, so that expanded their options quite a bit. And she was getting a bit hungry. With a mischievous grin, she turned back to her newest potential accomplice, “Wanna go snatch some apple buns from elder Hiro?”

The question seemed to throw him off, but he at least recovered quicker than last time. “Are we allowed to do that?”

“Nope!” She tossed his shirt back to him, not willing to wait for it to dry before raiding the old man’s pantry. It’s not like he didn’t have enough to share, and he’d always been one of the Senju’s rudest elders.

She wasn’t sure why she was surprised he didn’t move to follow her. But when she realized he wasn’t, she marched right back to him, hands on her hips. “Well?”

“I’m not stealing from someone.”

Touka wanted to argue with him, but something stopped her. Something darkened his tone and face, and he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

Damn, this boy was confusing. She scratched at her neck, racking her brain for something to distract him from whatever had dulled his eyes again.

“Well, do you wanna, I dunno...” They could always train, but she wasn’t really in the mood to pummel the shit out of him.  And besides, she’d just got his hair clean. They were at the river, though, which meant she could just dunk him in afterwards.

Her eyes widened as she glanced downstream, grinning as she remembered what she’d found just last week. “Have you ever seen a kappa, kid?”

“Demons aren’t real.” He almost snapped at her, and it was the loudest he’d spoken so far.

“You so sure about that? Cause I found one.”

He huffed, and the look resembled Hashirama’s pouting way too much for her sanity. “Demons aren’t real. It’s probably something else, and you just mistook it for one.”

“Maybe.” The look he sent her said quite clearly he wasn’t going to change his mind, so she shrugged. “Why don’t we go see it and you can tell me what it is then.”

In the end, that’s exactly what he did. Turns out he’d read up on the legends of kappa and had even visited the giant salamander when he did so. Much to her disappointment, he didn’t let her poke at it - really, she could have anyway, but there was just something about those red eyes that made his sadness effect her way more than it should.

It only took an hour or two for her to decide Tobirama was one of her people. When they went their separate ways for breakfast, she made sure to keep an eye on him until he left her sight, fully intending on watching his back from now on. And the next evening, when some unfortunate idiot decided to whisper shit about the demonic bastard Butsuma brought into their clan in earshot of her, she whistled joyfully as she made him eat his own teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story, along with some of my other ones, won't be getting as frequent updates anymore. But, if you're ever wondering how the next chapter's going, you can always pop over to [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/officerjennie/) and say hi!
> 
> Names:  
> Senju Hiro (浩) - Prosperous


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Senju ward no more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is the last chapter that'll focus on Butsuma.  
> ... ~~at least I'm, like, 90% certain it is~~...

Butsuma rubbed at one of his temples, signing off on the financial budget without giving it more than a cursory once over. He tossed it haphazardly onto the stack of completed documents, most of which he’d already forgotten the details of. A proposal from the Uzumaki came to mind, one of many that had flooded his desk ever since his eldest had become of age, but the specifics were too muddled by his lack of focus to remember clearly.

Blindly reaching for the next document gave him nothing, and Butsuma paused when all he felt was the wood of his low desk at his fingertips. Sure enough, when he made himself focus he found nothing left for him to complete, leaving only the official scroll from the shogun waiting for his attention.

He’d already read it, of course. Something from the shogun himseelf couldn’t be pushed to the side for later, and he’d broken the wax seal almost immediately after he’d received it a few days prior.

Thinking about it only made his disbelieving daze worse, staring at the rolled up parchment sitting in front of him, looking so innocuous as if to taunt him. Knowing one of his elders had made a move without his approval - potentially more than one at that, though he had no proof on who it might have been that had the shogun’s ear - made his stomach roll, the taste of bile at the back of his throat.

Putting the matter off didn’t change a damn thing, of course. All it did was give him less time to prepare. His council should have already been consulted as it was, and now he had less than a week until Tobirama was expected to guard the shogun at his latest banquet.

It was a front, of course. Whatever spy one of his elders had planted in the shogun’s court had been whispering in his ear, planting information on the exceptional ward Butsuma had taken on all those years ago. They wouldn’t even have to be tall tales to catch his interest, seeing how legitimately terrifying Tobirama could be on the battlefield.

He didn’t bother rereading it. The exact wording and careful phrasing had haunted his thoughts enough the past few nights. He pushed himself up from his cushion instead, blowing out the candles and leaving his home office.

From the commotion he could hear coming from the living room, everyone was home for the night. At least his eldest was anyway, his voice near echoing around Butsuma as he made his way down the hall towards his room. He’d given up hope years ago that Hashirama would ever understand the concept of ‘inside volume’ and could only heave a sigh about it then, shutting the door to the bedroom to block out at least some of the noise.

The fur was where he’d left it, folded neatly on the bedside table, waiting. He ran an absent hand through it, frowning at the decision laid out in front of him.

If Tobirama went to the shogun as he was, with no official affiliation or name, he would not return to the Senju. The shogun had expressed great interest in his skills, and it was within his power to take Tobirama on as his own ward.

The elders were counting on that, of course. Ever since Tobirama had saved Itama, they had been subtly pushing for him to be removed from the clan. And what better way than through someone Busuma could not refuse?

His hand clenched in the fur, jaw painfully tight against the corner they’d attempted to trap him in. Letting Tobirama serve the shogun would gain the Senju great favor and more political sway in his territory. It would also mean steady employment, something that would greatly aid them on the war front. Even losing what was easily their second greatest warrior wouldn’t make it any less beneficial for the clan to let Tobirama go.

It came down to politics, as everything in his life did. The good of the clan above all else.

He picked the fur up, retrieving a second parcel out of the table drawer before leaving the room, heading back down the hallway. Just as he’d thought he might, he found Tobirama sitting in the living room with his eldest, the younger man somehow managing to read while Hashirama rambled on about some odd plant he’d found. He cleared his throat to gain their attention, making sure his son was quiet before turning to his ward.

“Tobirama, I have something for you.” He motioned for him to come closer, doing his best to ignore the height difference in the younger man’s favor as he stood in front of him. Sometimes he forgot just how old all of his boys had become, and the reminder always put an odd feeling in his chest.

He handed him the fur first, watching as Tobirama admired the pelt, holding it as if it was something precious even without yet knowing its significance. Butsuma gestured at the ties hanging off the fur, “It will fit your armor. Many Hatake warriors get them when they come of age, though it is a bit late.”

“I will be sure to thank Akamu-san when I see her.” Tobirama held it tighter to his chest, and looked ready to do so for quite some time. His son piped up then, coming over to admire and beam at the gift as well.

The parcel weighed heavy in Butsuma’s hand, and he gave brief consideration to keeping it a secret. But there were simply too many things he’d come to regret in his life. Handing it over would not be one of them.

“Here.” In his own determined haste, he nearly thrusted it at his ward. Tobirama handed the fur off to Hashirama, accepting the second gift with a brief nod as he unwrapped it.

The happuri made him freeze, the cold metal shinning in the dim light. Even Hashirama seemed to hold his breath at the sight of the crest engraved there, bold in black for the world to see.

“I know you will not put our name to shame, son.” Just because it felt like what he should do, he clapped his newest son on the shoulder once, hurrying on with the conversation to avoid any potential unsightly displays on his end. “The elders will be informed officially tomorrow evening on the matter, as you are to be named an official heir. All of the paperwork-”

Talking became difficult with Tobirama throwing his arms around him, and even more so when the blubbering mess crashed into the both of them and crushed them in his enthusiasm. He found himself awkwardly patting their backs, blinking up at the ceiling as he waited for his chance to escape.

A third body squeezed its way between the two of them, the top of Itama’s head barely reaching his brothers’ shoulders as he wrapped his arms around them the best he could.

“So what’s the cuddle pile for?”

The phrasing was embarrassing enough without Hashirama’s emotional babbling answer. Somehow Itama managed to understand the incoherent sobbing though, but his response was thankfully calm in comparison, a simple shrug as he said, “Of course Tobi’s our brother. We already knew that.”

Butsuma only put up with the huddling for a few moments longer, shooing them off and citing work as an excuse to beat a retreat from it all back down the hall. It wasn’t a complete lie since he did need to figure out how to properly break the news to his council, as well as draft a missive to the shogun about the adoption.

All that being said, Butsuma found it impossible to focus on anything for the rest of the night, finding himself oddly smug about his decision once the moisture cleared from his eyes. There was little anyone could do to snatch his son away now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the Wholesome factor made up for the roughness of this chapter xD


End file.
